The Last Time (Everything Has Changed)
by WriteEditRepeat
Summary: "I caution you, the South Park from which you left and the South Park to which you return will have a handful of critical differences." After his tragic death, another chance. With his life-debt paid in extraordinary currency, Kyle adjusts to an entirely unique yet hauntingly familiar South Park, Colorado. Two genderbent characters. Cursing. Pairings later.
1. Prologue

**Wednesday, January 27, 7:03 AM.**  
"Kyle!" shrieks my mother, somewhere downstairs. I roll from bed, silence my alarm, and grab yesterday's jeans from the floor.

**Wednesday, January 27, 7:19 AM.**  
Zipping my orange coat and securing a plush scarf of ivory fleece around my neck, I sling my backpack across one shoulder and announce my departure. The door sighs behind me to my parents' and brother's farewells.

**Wednesday, January 27, 7:24 AM.**  
I pause at the crosswalk, glance left, right, left again, and continue. Snow gathers on my outstretched mitten as I wave to Butters, bidding him good morning. From behind, a horn blares belligerently. I turn.

**Wednesday January 27, 7:36 AM.**  
Amorphous swaths of crimson and cerulean dot my vision. Gentle, steady pressure drapes over my exposed chest; wintry January air, however, effortlessly penetrates through. Through the haze, a familiar voice. _Stan._ From his inflection, something's upsetting him. His tone rollercoasters between anger and desperation, begging and threatening, before finally breaking down. His sobs sadden me, but I cannot muster the strength to comfort him.

**?**  
"Kyle," Kenny's voice awakens me. Ubiquitous, caustic brightness besets my eyes. It burns, even behind my eyelids.

"K-Kenny?" return I, tentatively. "K-Ken, where are you? I can't see."

Liberal, magnanimous shade envelops me, warding off the blinding whiteness. One breath, two, three and I dare relax, allowing my eyes open. Opaque spots lurch and titter manically across my vision a heartbeat, when Kenny appears. Kenny, base and conniving, ever facetious and mischievous, lecherous, vagrant, apathetic _Kenny_, towers before me, two stately wings of unadulterated alabaster protruding from his upper back, shielding me. Each wing, only partially extended, stretches miles past my field of view. Each feather, preened and completely visible amidst uncountable analogues, gleams like polished marble. He seems an unfortunate figurine trapped between their celestial magnificence, yet he bares their weight effortlessly, standing erect with an understanding and compassionate and _pure_ aura profoundly besmirched by my presence. Glossy golden locks, curled shaggily about his ears, shine against the blankness like mid-May sunshine, warm but not sweltering and welcoming. He kneels, scoops me in his arms, and lifts our combined weight.

And the enchantment shatters.

"Oh, God," pant I, throat constricting. Thoughts align, forming conclusions, and my stomach churns savagely. "I'm dead, aren't I?"

"No." I wince at his sternness, pulse still audible, but relax minutely. He sighs. "It's not that simple." Curling tighter into Kenny's protective embrace, I finger the worn synthetic fur lining the hood of his parka.

"How do you know?" murmur I. Kenny marches forward, one shoddy Converse after another, through everlasting whiteness. With no discernible geographical features, just blankness, Kenny continues. Footstep after footstep, delicate yet steady, almost rhythmic in cadence. I fear I unknowingly offended him. _I'm dead, aren't I? No, it's not that simple._ Rewind, replay, analyze._ How do you know?_ Thrice I disassemble and examine our sparse exchange, but return no obvious source of insult. And then,

"I protect you, and Stan, and yes, even Cartman," Kenny begins, sudden though nonetheless even and fluid. "I protect the whole of South Park. I die and return to life, so that you never will experience death." Thoughts and responses die in my throat, forgotten, drowned by fragments of independent and discontinuous memories drifting through my mind. Hit by Officer Barbrady's cruiser. Shot through the heart. Poached alive. Muscular atrophy.

"Oh God, Ken!" I draw him near as possible, nuzzling his neck, as each gruesome slaughter overtakes my thoughts. Crushed by an elevator. Ravaged by a bear. Syphilis. Suicide. _Oh my God, they killed Kenny._ _You bastards._ "Kenny, oh God… How could I-? How could we-? You suffered hundreds, hell, maybe thousands of deaths since we were kids and we never once remembered." Wetness clouds my vision as Kenny hushes me.

"I chose to erase my deaths from your human memory," He states, but I cannot bring myself to ask why. "Though your soul remembers forever." He smiles radiantly. "Your grief proves your friendship and loyalty, Kyle, something I can never, in all of my lives, repay." In place of words, which seem trite and unnecessary, I peck Kenny's check.

"So why, if you protect South Park from death, am I here now?" Kenny readjusts me in his arms, treading on, one holey Converse in front of the other.

"The accident left you critically injured. My sacrifice alone cannot spare your life, and for that, I am truly sorry." And I grasp the situation finally: Kenny, wizened, at only seventeen years of age. Forced to endure poverty and abuse on Earth; cursed to an eternal cycle of life and death without a proper funeral, without a single tear shed. Not even his mother, so unyieldingly protective and loving, mourned her most adored son. I lament, heart strained and aching under the weight of Kenny's circumstances. "Tell me, Kyle," He senses my thoughts, a reflex organic after numerous years of friendship and adventures. By some irony, he attempts to ease my pain, pushing away my ruminations with a, "What would you give return to South Park? To be with Stan? To hug Ike?" His lips curl gently in a catty smirk. "To punch _Eric_ in the jaw again."

"Anything!" My response requires no thought.

"Are you positive? I caution you, the South Park from which you left and the South Park to which you return will have a handful of critical differences." Our eyes meet in a fleeting glance. He nods. "Okay, as you wish."

With every fiber of my being, with every muscle hardened from wrestling Ike and midnight basketball with Stan, I cling to my childhood friend. I squeeze my eyes shut, but somehow still see as his wings expand, cocooning us...


	2. I Know Something Now

_All I knew this morning when I woke,_  
_is I know something now,_  
_know something now,_  
_I didn't before.  
_- Everything Has Changed,_ Taylor Swift & Ed Sheeran  
_

* * *

With a start, I spring upwards. Sticky sweat plasters my nightclothes to my skin; rough, papery sheets bunch between my fingers, helplessly trapped in a vice. I struggle to calm my racing heartbeat, but the nightmare fades promptly from memory. For a few moments, each heartbeat, palpable behind my ears, encapsulates the universe. As it evens, however, the whispering hum, the rhythmic beeping blurs slowly into consciousness. I recognize these walls painted subtly in matte-and-glossy maroon stripes, the sterile linoleum tiles. Dread churns in my stomach.

Hell's Pass Hospital.

The accident.

_Kenny._

He nearly startles me into a second near-death with his suave, "Good morning, sunshine." I whip around, whimpering when each nerve smarts at the action. His mouth-corners contort in an impish, lopsided smirk.

"Kenny?" My voice, hoarse and unrecognizable from disuse, surprises me. I chance a glance upwards (_Was Kenny always so tall?_), acutely wondering if I merely fabricated our previous encounter. (_Like dreams, except for an unconscious mind.)_ Our gazes meet; those mysterious beryl irises answer unspoken questions. I swallow, stomach leaden. (_Maybe that's just nausea. When did I eat last? How long have I been here?_) He holds the Styrofoam cup to my lips and I drink greedily, draining tepid though nonetheless refreshing liquid in several swallows. (_Even my face aches.)_ Kenny tosses the cup easily into the corner wastebin, procuring a laughably dated Nokia from his pocket, as four jarring staccato thumps resound throughout the modest room. Before I even draw breath for "Come in!" Stan bursts through, door slamming into the wall behind him, stumbling over himself (_mostly his untied shoelaces_) to my bedside. A light sweat not from exertion dots his forehead. Watery snow drips from his leather jacket's shoulder. Disheveled raven locks, slightly greasy from a few days without washing, poke beneath his hat, which leans slightly to the left on his head. Darkness beneath his eyes only emphasizes the sallow pallor of his cheeks. Despite daily football practice, he seems scrawny, ill-nourished. Beside me, Kenny taps erratically at the plastic keys.

"Kyle!" proclaims Stan, gathering me in a fiercely passionate embrace. I cough weakly, body throbbing in dull protest beneath his forceful grip.

"Hey, Stan," I wheeze. And he's gone, horror widening his pupils.

"God, I'm so sorry! Kenny texted me like an hour ago when you began waking up but that son-of-a-bitch Mr. Wilson threatened to give me detention if I skipped the last half of his period again, so I had to wait until afternoon release." He trembles and fidgets, running anxious fingers through his hair and readjusting his hat, speaking so rapidly I barely understand him. He opens his mouth again, perhaps to clarify, but a feminine voice interrupts from the doorway.

"Good afternoon, Kenneth," Wendy Testaburger. Pointedly ignoring Stan, she floats closer, revealing Bebe Stevens and delicate blonde unfamiliar to me. Wendy's sapphire irises affix me with such genuine warmth that I cannot help returning the affection. "We're so glad to hear you're recovering," She begins. Bebe and the blonde nod. "The cheerleading squad misses you terribly." (_Since when did the cheerleading squad even acknowledge my presence?)_ I glance to Kenny a fraction of a second, but he focuses intently on the screen. (_Since when does Wendy just ignore Stan?)_

"Yeah!" interjects Bebe. "We know how dreary hospitals are, so the girls and I created a care-slash-get-well-soon-package for you." She hands me a giftbag of simple matte cardstock, and despite the teal tissue paper numerous handmade cards peek from the top. Dumbstruck, I smile thankfully, which she returns blithely.

"I'm just glad to see you alive," whispers the nameless, enigmatic blonde. Though adopting a slightly more feminine tone, I'd recognize that voice anywhere. (_Butters?)_ "I-I saw the truck hit you, right after you waved to me f-from the c-crosswalk. I-I was so afraid for you." Mist glazes her eyes.

"Hey," whispers Kenny, betraying his disinterest in his phone. He stands, gently gathering the apparently-now-female Butters into his arms and kissing her forehead. Stan, ever awkward, focuses pointedly on his sneakers.

"You better take good care of Marjorine, McCormick." teases Wendy affably. Marjorine blushes, withdrawing from Kenny and stammering an apology. Wendy's mellifluous laugh momentarily masks the hospital's dreary atmosphere, and soft, unexpected affection overwhelms me as she turns to address me. "I hate to cut our visit so short, but you know how Student Council keeps me busy. Please feel better. We hope to see you back at school soon, Kylie." She leaves with Bebe and Marjorine, who proffers a petite wave behind her. I puzzle over Kenny's dazed expression and rosy cheeks before Wendy's words sink in. (_Kylie. Oh, God. Am I dating Wendy in this South Park?)_ Kenny, still transfixed, offers me no insight. Suddenly weary, I sink into the stiff pillow and groan.

Knight-in-shining-armor Stan rushes to my side, a flurry of questions about my condition. I assure him, yes, I'm just fine. Just weak, exhausted. I was hit by a truck, after all. Laugh. Cough. Cough again. After a few moments of silence, Kenny reclaiming his senses when his phone vibrates (_Who's that I wonder?_), Stan unexpectedly announces,

"I broke up with her."

_(Oh, thank God I'm not dating Wendy. How awkward would that be?)_

_(Wait, what?)_

He licks his wind-chapped lips, steadying his voice. "I broke up with Wendy." Repeats he. "Ever since last Wednesday, when that… that…" Stan seethes, broad shoulders stiffening, malice lacing his tone. "…_bastard_ hit you, I've been a wreck. God, Kyle, I can't imagine life without you. So I broke up with her."

Cadenced monitors breach otherwise silence as I flounder for response. I consider "I'm sorry dude" (_But I'm not, not really, they've never stayed together more than six weeks since seventh grade_) and "Why don't you Facebook Skye from English? She seems pretty interested in you." (_Though, last time I tried something similar he locked himself in his grandfather's 1989 Mustang, threatening suicide, because 'nobody will ever replace Wendy'_), but the moment slips through my fingers. Stan's expression darkens, strained but indecipherable, and before I truly grasp the situation he turns towards the door.

"Feel better," he murmurs, the door whispering shut behind him.


	3. In the Blink of an Eye

**A/N: Apologies for the delay, as well as the short chapter. To those who favorited/followed me and my story, sincerest thanks! I truly appreciate the support. :) Reviews absolutely welcomed!**

* * *

"What the **actual** fuck just happened?" Kenny tosses his Nokia carelessly into my lap before reclining in the plastic chair to prop his sneakers atop the mattress.

"Well, let's see. First Stanley-the-categorical-shit-fiesta visited, so unfortunately interrupted by ice-ice-baby-Wendy with Bebe and ever-adorb-Marjorine..." His head tilts just slightly left as he strokes his hairless chin, feigning deep thought.

"No shit, Sherlock. I mean, what's with Stan? He **never** broke up with Wendy before; he's unhealthily obsessed with her. Speaking of Wendy, **Kylie? **Really? Where the fuck's that from? Nevermind you and Butters-"

"Marjorine," Kenny's sharpness prompts several beats of silence. _I caution you, the South Park from which you left and the South Park to which you return will have a handful of critical differences. _

"So he's...?"

"She's."

Something within me disputes "Marjorine's" existence. Perhaps her awkward carriage, her hushed tone? Butters always seemed somewhat feminine; he infiltrated the girls' slumber party in fourth-grade without question. I almost anticipate him, appearing a duplicate from my memory, returning to giggle along with Kenny at my gullibility. But Kenny's sternness, along with Wendy's, Bebe's, and Stan's casual acceptance of her, seem beyond just a prank. _I caution you..._

"Ky..." sighs Kenny, straightening up. He crosses his arms, immediately uncrossing them, shuffling his feet as he picks dirt from underneath his fingernails.

"You know I hate that nickname." Neither scolding nor teasing. Just a statement.

"Should I call you Kylie?" mumbles he, to his fingers.

I wrinkle my nose.

"Kyle, you... I don't think..." Kenny nibbles his lower lip, prompting blood. "'Critical differences' meant more than Marjorine." Pausing, he shifts focus to the ceiling, then adds: "And Stan."

"Who then? What then? Show me, Ken." He stares intently into my lap, when I remember his Nokia contentedly resting in my lap. Scratches mar its cheap exterior; a sizable dent obscures the bottom-right corner. Beneath the coarse hospital-gown fabric, my heart stirs. _Tha-thump._ I randomly tap some numerals; the screen brightens, revealing Marjorine, her head tilted marginally backwards, eyes closed, and jaw slack with silent, endless laughter. To her immediate left, Stan's tongue pokes between pursed lips as he concentrates entirely on his nose. _Tha-thump. Tha-thump. _I scarcely recognize the third and final teenager. Tangerine ringlets extend past the picture's view. Plush, charcoal lashes. Wide, mossy pupils fixate upon Stan. She beams, thin lips glossy and rose-hued, entranced as though he encapsulates her entire universe. Freckles lightly dot the bridge of her nose, disappearing beneath the healthy blush highlighting her slender cheekbones. The screen darkens, but Kenny's background sears beneath my eyelids.

_Marjorine. Stan. _

_Marjorine, Stan, and..._

_And..._

…

"Kenny?"

…

"Kyle."

...

_That's me._

_Marjorine, Stan, and Kyle..._

_Except I'm not._

_Not anymore._

Kenny stands. I watch him amble closer and pry my fingers from his phone, tossing it nonchalantly into his chair. "Breathe," commands he, albeit delicately, massaging circles into my shoulder blade. Inhale, exhale. He hums tunelessly, seating himself next to me. Inhale, exhale. Refreshing. Had I held my breath this entire time?

"Who am I, Ken?" And there it is. That unanswerable question, resounding behind my temples, deafening other thought. Where's my niche in this frustratingly dissimilar South Park? Who's friend, enemy? Though Wendy, Stan, and Kenny seem more-or-less continuous with their specters in my memories, Marjorine proves as unfamiliar as they familiar. What of my parents? Ike? Cartman? Thousands of suddenly-irrelevant details – exact lengths and locations of cracks in the pavement, the unusually steepled grass blades framing Stark's Pond – formed the South Park etched behind my eyelids. I feel hollow and misplaced, straining to preserve my South Park. _How'd Sparky's bandana feel? What color lipstick did Mrs. Cartman wear?_ I struggle to recall, answers increasingly distant with each attempt.

"You're Kyle Broflovski." begins Kenny. "Well, technically Kylie Broflovski; though, everybody aside from Wendy knows you as 'Kyle'. You're Stan's super-best-friend, and my regular-best-friend, and Eric's kind-of-sort-of-friend, I guess. You enjoy Wendy's competition and companionship, and Bebe's spunk, and Marjorine's kindness. You're intelligent and dedicated, you created the Park County High School boxing team freshman year and play Borderlands with Stan, Eric, and I on weekends, you..." Kenny continues long after sunset blackens the room, emphatically stressing the similarities between this South Park and mine, between Kylie's body and mine. Though he speaks fluently, his saccharine words obviously memorized, only the neverending dissimilarities between here and there register in my ears. _He's "Cartman", not "Eric." Bebe and I never spoke. I played basketball. _When Kenny finally quiets, voice trailing off mid-sentence, I strain to distinguish his lanky figure in the darkness. But moonlight silhouettes his knee; he's perched opposing me, back resting against the footboard, legs folded beneath him.

"I want to go home, Kenny," state I. He coaxes me into his embrace, sniffling. My shoulder dampens.

"I know," he replies. "I know."


End file.
